The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. Jennifer Ryan

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СКАЧАТЬ her old horse a bit of attention – she’s completely neglected him since she stopped dressage.

      No such luck.

      It was Venetia’s voice all right, but she wasn’t talking to Amadeus. I stood on tiptoe to look through a gap in the wooden door and had the perfect view of Mr Slater, immaculate in grey suit and tie. He looked incredibly out of place in the stable setting, which ponged of sweaty horses and saddle leather. I would have been surprised to see him there, had it not been for Venetia’s little bet with Angela.

      But this didn’t seem like a little bet at all.

      She was standing close to him looking up at him in the most ridiculous way, her blonde hair swept to the side and over one shoulder. Even from where I stood, the gusto of her peachy perfume overpowered the sinewy whiff of manure. She was wearing a dress I’ve never seen before. It was sunflower yellow and shone like silk, with a flowing skirt and low in the front, exposing her cleavage with startling fullness. A white cardigan was draped around her smooth shoulders, making her look young – playful kitten one minute, conniving minx the next.

      ‘What do you have for me?’ she said, standing before him, inches away.

      ‘Do you deserve anything?’ he asked with a strange half smile on his handsome lips, one eyebrow raised.

      ‘Maybe,’ she giggled, twirling her hips so that the gleaming skirt slunk around his legs for a moment, and then cascaded back around hers.

      He slid his hand into his inside pocket and slipped out a package. She took it and stood away laughing, opening it. I wanted her to get on and rip it open, but she wavered and hesitated, opening and then closing, running her forefinger over and under the brown paper packaging in a ludicrous way.

      Eventually she pulled out a pair of stockings, holding them up in the dim light. Two sheens of slender brown gauze moving gently in the still air, transparent in the dappled light of the dusty window.

      With careful deliberation, she took one shoe off, standing as she was in the middle of the small stable and, casting one of the stockings at him, she slipped the other onto her foot and up over her ankle. I felt instantly uncomfortable, as did Mr Slater, who turned away, busying himself with folding the stocking he held in his hand.

      ‘What do you think of that?’ She prompted him to look as she drew the top over her knee and rucked up her dress to pull it up.

      He glanced down, and I saw his eyes engage with her long, smooth thigh, now half-covered with the stocking, beige brown below and pearly white skin above.

      ‘They’ll do well enough,’ he said, looking away. But his eyes strayed back to her as she kicked off her other shoe.

      ‘Give me the other one,’ she breathed, and he handed her the other stocking.

      She unfurled it, letting it cascade down in front of her, and then she raised her foot and slipped it over, shimmying the beige haze up her other leg. Again she rucked up her dress, this time to show a white lace garter, to which she carefully attached the top of the stocking. You could even see a glimpse of her undergarments as she brazenly displayed herself in front of him.

      ‘I don’t think you should be doing that,’ he said. He hadn’t turned away this time. He was just standing there watching, immersed.

      ‘I wanted to let you see what they look like. A kind of thank-you gift.’ She stood up straight but held the skirt of her dress up so that he could view his gift in full glory. See what I mean about her poise, as if she’s played every step before? Then she slipped her shoes back on and raised her skirt a touch higher, placing one foot in front of the other like some kind of actress or showgirl.

      ‘I told you. You’d better leave me be,’ he answered, his voice slipping out of his usual witty, upper-class front, his hand pushing back through his hair. Then he recollected himself and added with a half smile, ‘Or I might not be a perfect gentleman.’

      She smirked, a look of determination in her eyes. This was the problem with Venetia – she could never see herself beaten. She wanted Slater, regardless of the price. She took a step towards him and took his hand. I couldn’t see what happened next as she now had her back to me, but I think she must have put his hand on her thigh.

      ‘Venetia,’ he whispered. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

      ‘Yes,’ she replied, velvet self-assurance in her voice. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’

      ‘I don’t think you do.’

      He lowered his face and kissed her extremely forcefully indeed, his other hand coming around the back of her pale shoulders, pulling her in towards him. They stood locked, writhing like that against each other for a few minutes, and then, I have no idea how, they eased themselves onto the hay without stopping kissing. I couldn’t see them as the hole in the door was too narrow, but I knew what they were doing. Like animals in a stable.

      Flinging myself out of the yard, I decided to go back home and do some thinking about what I just saw, which is where you find me now. None of my questions seem to be answered, but I now know some things for sure.

       Things I know for sure

      Venetia has almost certainly done this before

      She might have done it more than once before too (although didn’t have a baby)

      She might have done it with Henry, which is why he follows her around

      Angela Quail has clearly done it, Vicar’s daughter or not

      Now that I come to think of it, there is a lot more of it going on than I thought

      I’m still not going to do it until I’m married

      Venetia is more serious about Mr Slater than I thought (or Daddy thought, for that matter)

      Daddy will be furious if he ever finds out

      This piece of information might come in very useful

      With that, I have decided to close the matter, although the image of her standing there is etched onto my mind. How come she’s got it into her mind she can do these things, when we’ve been told that we can’t?

      Then I realised. It’s the war. No one cares any more about saving ourselves for marriage. It’s all about the here and now, letting everything go, enjoying life while we can. Virginity is old hat because we could be dead tomorrow or, worse, be occupied by the Nazis.

      That said, I’m not sure I fancy the idea of doing it that much, so I think I’ll just keep mine for now. I’ll have to perfect my solos so that I can become so famous and successful that I never have to think about Venetia and her disgusting little affairs ever again.

       Letter from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister, Clara

       3 Church Row

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